Calculating Numeric Values
by Crystallized Honey
Summary: Ivan has the communication skills of a rock and Alfred has all the patience of a newborn. Together—and terribly in love—they learn that age is a whole lot more than "just a number."
1. Associative Property

**_Associative Property_** **\- the property (which applies both to multiplication and addition) by which numbers can be added or multiplied in any order and still yield the same value, e.g. (a + b) + c = a + (b + c) or (ab)c = a(bc).**

* * *

He comes home to an empty apartment, grocery bag in one hand, keys dangling from the fingers of the other. He kicks the door shut behind him. The locks are not twisted into place, but he cannot be bothered to care. There are a lot of things he can no longer be bothered with doing or being concerned about. Instead, he continues forward into his home, stopping only to toss his keys into the tiny glass bowl on the end table immediately to the right.

The living room looms in flickering, muted colors wafting from the television. Its volume is dangerously low, bordering on completely silent so as not to bother the neighboring tenants when he is not home to turn it down. Ivan cannot remember the last time he turned the device off. Nor can he remember the last time he so much as glanced in its direction for more than a second. The sealed envelope atop the coffee table is more than often of a reminder that his newly acquired habit is more trouble than it's worth.

But he hates silence, he hates the overwhelming loneliness that comes with a home (meant for two) void of another to fill the place with life. He hates the feeling of overwhelming shame that comes with being alone in places you were usually with another. During his spontaneous evening run to the grocery store, he realized the usual cashier, always especially jovial and just a tad bit too nosy, would no doubt notice an equally pestering blonde missing from his side during his biweekly visits. Thus, he'd chosen to wait, filled with utter humiliation, behind several other customers, rather than one, to avoid being interrogated.

To avoid being _reminded._ To avoid possibly being prompted into pretending as if he does not mind being alone.

Shuffling sluggishly into the kitchen, Ivan places his grocery bag onto the counter beside the refrigerator, taking notice that the granite is wiped clean. The sink is void of dishes, knives, spoons, cups and plates, all tucked away within their designated cabinets and drawers. It is not as a result of him cleaning, but more so the fact that he has not eaten a single meal within his home for weeks now.

"What am I doing?" he asks himself, wandering back into the living room.

The moment he plops down onto the couch, removing his cellphone from his pocket to toss it onto the coffee table beside the unopened envelope in the process, he is hit with an incoming call. Odd for the time of night.

 _Unknown Number_ , the screen flashes as the entire phone vibrates harshly. The pulses sent through the device have it skittering across the tabletop, sliding precariously close to the edge. The sound is loud, echoing through the apartment and masking the mumbling of a man and woman currently engaged in a heated discussion on the television screen. Their steadily rising tempers are made obvious by their contorting facial expressions. It is an oddly familiar sight to watch; the furrowed brows, the aggravated gestures and exasperation to the point of forceful poking and shoving.

For a moment, he sits there, thoroughly transfixed by the image. There are no captions to assist him in deciphering the nearly muted words flying from their flapping lips, but that is no problem. He does not have to know what they are saying to understand because he's been there. Time and time again. Angry and disheartened, plagued with the desire to fix things but unable to show it.

 _"Next time I'll remember to tell myself that my boyfriend doesn't give a fuck what I think before I say anything."_

 _"You are so dramatic. I am busy."_

 _"There's barely any time for_ us _because_ you're _always all about work, work, work. Relationships take work, too, Ivan."_

 _"Relationships also need understanding."_

 _"Do you even love me anymore? Just tell me. I'm fucking tired of going in circles with you."_

 _"I do. You know that."_

 _"Then fucking act like it!"_

The recollection causes him to groan pitifully, throwing his head back to gaze absentmindedly at the ceiling. It always seemed like problem after problem. It still does. Ivan supposes that is why he currently has barely enough energy to cook a homemade meal, a nearly empty second bedroom (though it was used only for storage before), and a heavy heart. A ton of regrets, goes without saying.

A ton of regrets and not a single one keeps him from tapping that little green icon, lips sealed.

"Hello?"

He does not respond to the hopeful inquiry, well aware of who is on the other end of the line.

"Ivan?" asks a familiar voice, breathy and alarmingly unsteady.

It brings back memories. Harsh ones, loving ones, both none too long ago. Nevertheless, he savors the sound as if this will be the last time he hears it. It may very well be.

"I know I told you I would never contact you again and that I didn't want to ever speak to you again… That we were over and all that other stuff..."

 _Hurry up and get to the point already,_ Ivan wants to say, but he stays silent, trying hard to identify the muffled sounds in the background. He still worries. His hearing centers on the cackling of rambunctious laughter and incoherent conversation in the background because anything is better than listening to the unforeseen outbreak of whimpering and sniffling directly in his ears.

There is the brief sound of rustling and Ivan imagines the boy pulling the sleeves of his sweater, or jacket, over his hands so that he can swipe the fabric under his runny nose—an unsanitary habit Ivan never bothered to correct.

"I just—I need you. Ple—"

 _Beep!_

He does not want to hear the rest of that statement.

The phone clatters loudly against the table, _03:39_ flickering in and out of view. _Call ended,_ the screen flashes accusingly. His fingers flex before clenching into a fist atop his knee. He has to ignore the urge to call back. He hates this feeling of weakness, of pity and sympathy one simple word can bring upon him. Even after he'd promised himself that he would strengthen the walls around his heart, that he would forget any previous affections in favor of growing as cold as he felt when he was left alone. Alas, _saying_ is a lot easier than _doing_.

Honestly, the entire situation is laughable. Thirty-two is entirely too old to be so heartbroken. Much like thirty-two is entirely too old to be love-stricken by a boy just settling into the last of his teenage years. A lot like thirty-two is entirely too old to allow himself to be helplessly strung around by the same boy.

It would be a useless lie to say that he is not expecting another call to immediately follow. Routines are difficult to dismiss once embedded into one's instincts. As shameful as it is to say, this isn't their first go-round.

So he sits there, almost hopeful, staring at the screen on his phone until it dims and darkens completely. He does not count the minutes that pass, but, true to pattern, the device lights up not too long after, ten familiar digits on display.

This time, he answers by the time the phone delves into its second round of buzzing. And again, the other is rambling before Ivan can say anything in greeting. Not that he plans to.

"Please. Don't hang up. I didn't know who else to call."

 _Lies and poorly constructed excuses._ Ivan has been spoon-fed enough of them to know. Regardless, he cannot bring himself to hang up again. Two calls are the maximum and that is never exceeded. Instead, he stays on the line, does not utter a single word, waiting for an explanation. He is always hopeful that something will give, that something will change.

But it is all routine.

"I feel sick."

That statement is truthful. It is made clear in the way it is muttered, seemingly not at all addressing Ivan. It sounds like more of a fleeting thought than an intentional opening for conversation.

With a heaving sigh, Ivan's resolve finally crumbles because he still cares. "What do you want, Alfred?"

There is a brief pause before Alfred answers in a quiet whisper, "You."

Despite his inability to be certain of whether that statement is true or false, Ivan wants to believe. He wants so badly to believe that Alfred is not luring him in.

"Do not move. Text me where you are. I am coming to get you."

"You d-"

That is the second time Ivan ends the call before Alfred can finish a sentence. In retrospect, that is his way of leveling control. Alfred has a way with words, he knows how to persuade and rephrase to tug at Ivan's heartstrings in all situations. The only thing Ivan has is the fact that, on the phone, he does not have to listen. Ivan has the ability to choose whether or not he wishes to answer, whether or not Alfred's words have enough value to be heard.

Unfortunately, that feeling of power is only momentary because the next thing he knows he is shimmying his way back into his coat, preparing to go back out into the night to retrieve Alfred. All after a few sentences. Almost as if Alfred had not called it quits just weeks ago and left him in a pit of overwhelming loneliness and heartbreak.

When he reaches the door, Ivan's eyes are drawn to the picture frame on the end table when he grabs his keys. He reaches out for it, grasps it in overly gentle hands, and stares. The photograph is of him and Alfred, both wearing smiles wide enough to hurt one's jaws. Alfred stands behind him, blue eyes glittering, arms thrown around his neck as he leans forward over his shoulder, the strands of Ivan's hair tickling the skin of his cheek. He remembers that day well (and the day he said he would finally get rid of it). Those were the better days of their relationship. Then, it was all downhill from there.

Yet, time and time again, they came together to try once more, no matter how far into the slumps they slipped. All in pursuit of what they had before.

"Don't get your hopes up," he whispers to himself before flipping the frame onto its face to hide those haunting smiles. Then, he leaves to start the cycle anew.

What can he say? He's somewhat of a dreamer.


	2. Bayesian Probability

**_Bayesian Probability_** **\- a popular interpretation of probability which evaluates the probability of a hypothesis by specifying some prior probability, and then updating in the light of new relevant data.**

* * *

It takes less than thirty full seconds for Alfred to text with an address (an unfamiliar one). It takes two minutes for him to make it down the stairs and to the parking lot. And it takes fives minute for Ivan to get into his car, settle in, and turn on the engine.

During the drive, Ivan prepares himself for his and Alfred's first opportunity to speak face-to-face in weeks. Mind working overtime, he conjures up dozens of possible scenarios for every which direction their conversation can go. Considering they left things off on a sour note, it is sensible to believe that things are not going to go well. Although, that implies that they usually do. Which has been far from the truth for years now.

In addition to their harsh last words to one another, judging from the dialogue shared over the phone minutes ago, Ivan can deduct that the other is drunk. There are five stages to Alfred's drunkenness. In no particular order, they are as follows: _happy and flirty, sentimental, angry and temperamental, overly emotional,_ and _incoherent._ Ivan crosses his fingers in hopes that he will not have to go through the tiring roller coaster ride of dealing with them all tonight.

"...your destination is on the right," alerts the GPS. Sure enough, a few feet away is the home that Ivan assumes Alfred is hiding within.

A steady flow of people travel in and out of the house. Most appear to have had a few drinks, some are ridiculously loud and rowdy during their departure, yelling out goodbyes, singing oddly strung together lyrics. They scream and shout as they traipse across the lawn. Ivan sends Alfred a text to inform him that he is outside while keeping an eye on the kids scrambling into the streets. He isn't sure what to think when they get into vehicles in the state they are in.

The front door opens and out comes Alfred, unsteady and wobbly (much like his voice had been minutes ago). The boy stumbles down the stairs, grip firm on the rusting railing. Ivan watches him through the windshield with concern, steering wheel stabbing into his sternum as he leans over it. Silently, he prays that Alfred does not clumsily face-plant into the concrete. With shaking legs, it is quite possible he will buckle under the weight of his own body very soon.

It is not the steps that worry him, though. It is the entire street. Even after Alfred is level with the ground once more, he rocks and tips from side to side as if at sea, which may have been an amusing sight if Ivan had not witnessed the other crack his head against a pole a year ago. That night was spent in the hospital with Alfred laughing as he received staples to his head and Ivan dancing on the brink of a heart attack.

The closer Alfred wobbles to the vehicle, the clearer it becomes that he is speaking. Whatever is being said is much too muffled to be understandable with the windshield between them. Not that there is much to be said because, in seconds, Alfred is bending over, palm kneading into his stomach. His body jolts with forced heaving. When he does not vomit, he stands up and throws his arms out in a flashy way as if to say _ta-daaaa_. Then, he is rushing to rest of the short distance to the car.

Alfred nearly runs face-first into the passenger side window, only narrowly avoiding cracking his head against the glass by raising his arms. The brunt of the impace is caught by the skin of his elbows. He manages to maintain his composure, even though the collision looks and sounds as if it is painful. Most likely, his mind is too cloudy to register the sensation.

Regardless, there is small thump as Alfred leans over, knocking his forehead against the roof of the car. Apparently, injury is inevitable with his lack of balance. Before any more harm can be done, Ivan rolls down the window to demand he get in. Immediately, Alfred is sticking his head into the vehicle, no longer deterred by glass.

"Hey, handsome," he greets with a goofy, content grin. "You lookin' for a little fun?"

( _happy and flirty_ )

"Have you been drinking again?"

Sliding into a crouch so that only his eyes and the top of his head is visible, Alfred snickers. "No."

Despite his mouth and lips being out of sight, Ivan can easily tell that the other is smiling, the slight squinting of his eyes, the subtle scrunching of the skin beneath them (a result of the rise of his cheeks) are all telltale signs. They are actions that typically occur when Alfred is intoxicated and unsure of how to execute his usual Hollywood smile. Nonetheless, that is the least of Ivan's problems at the moment.

"You are not twenty-one. You should not be drinking."

"I don't caaarrreee!" Alfred sings, pulling backwards to disappear fully.

Ivan slides out of the car and strides around the front bumper to stand in front of Alfred's stooping figure, a hand held out. "Give me your ID."

"Oh hoho," Alfred laughs mockingly, staring up at him. "So _now_ you know how to ask for IDs. Looks like I taught you a lesson. Look who's learning."

"Give it to me."

With a reluctant groan, Alfred digs into his pocket and hands over a small card.

In the right-hand corner is a picture of a blonde boy with a smile full of teeth. Despite the lack of glasses, Ivan knows it is Alfred without the aid of the writing beneath the image. Printed to the left is the name of the college he attends, an identification number following it. Overall, it is not the ID he wants. So, he gives it back.

"Very funny, Alfred. I don't want this one. Give me the fake one."

When Alfred does not make a move to retrieve it, Ivan tugs him into a standing position and lightly shoves him until his back is pressed against the car, ignoring Alfred's sarcastic drawl of _oh fuck, Mr. police officer, yes._ He shoves his hands into the front pockets of the boy's jeans and removes every single item. A small wad of cash, a cellphone, a few silver coins (which are returned) and an ID.

"I am keeping this and you are going to get in the car or I will be leaving you here."

"Yes, _Dad._ "

"Don't call me that."

"What. _Ever_."

It's going to be a long night.

* * *

The ride back to the apartment is awkward, to say the least. Awkwardly silent. Ivan dutifully focuses on the road while, beside him, Alfred taps away at his phone, curling into himself in the passenger seat. There is a genuine smile on his lips (something that Ivan has not been the cause of for months now) and he giggles in a way that reminds Ivan of the flirtatious laughter he wrangled out of Alfred in the beginning stages of their relationship. On most occasions, he is not an envious person. However, he cannot help but feel inadequate—insecure.

In the window, a reflection of the device's screen is displayed. Ivan recognizes the bubbles, two sets, each with a different color. Alfred's fingers fly across the on-screen keyboard, letters popping up in quick succession as he writes another message in reply to the one that just _pinged_ on his phone. The words are not readable in the mirrored image, but Ivan continues to glance worriedly at it whenever he is stalled by a red light.

* * *

They are able to make it back to the apartment with minor injuries (a few banged knees and scraped elbows courtesy of Alfred's constant attempts at performing superhero acrobatics). Ivan is proud to see that neither he, nor Alfred, is in need of stitches or staples thanks to his quick maneuvering. He considers it to be a commendable feat.

Once through the door, Ivan carefully deposits Alfred onto the couch with a soft command of, "Sit here while I get you some water."

Out of the corner of his eye, he gets a small glimpse of the boy falling over to rest his head against the arm of the couch with a pitiful groan before disappearing in the kitchen. He ambles to the cabinet containing plastic cups and glasses, and chooses one at random, twists the knob to the faucet on and waits for the water to run cold.

It is quiet. Unusually so with Alfred resting nearby in the living room. Experience tells him that this is the calm before the storm. Alfred is thinking and there is not much to ponder besides the dregs of their relationship. He can never leave well enough alone when something bothers him.

"Ivan."

"Yes?" Ivan calls over the sound of running water.

"I'm tired."

"It is late. You should go into the bedroom." _Please._

"No."

"No?" Ivan asks, perplexed by the reply. He wonders if his hearing is deceiving him.

"No. I mean, I'm tired… of us."

( _sentimental_ )

 _Oh._

He nearly drops the glass clenched in his grasp. Why is he so surprised?

A pain shoots through his chest, it sticks and lingers. It spreads. Blossoming throughout his entire torso until it feels as if something is attempting to claw its way through his ribs, shoving upwards through his esophagus by whatever is trying to escape his stomach. He feels sick. Lost all over again. His words scramble into undecipherable jumbles until they are lodged in his throat. Until he can do nothing, say nothing, think nothing.

He can only listen, like always. Always listening, never revealing.

The stream of water continues to run, splashing along the side of the stainless steel sink and whirling down the drain. Combined with his thoughts, it is almost hypnotizing.

"I'm really, really tired, Ivan. I just want to be happy."

Heartbreak never gets any easier, Ivan concludes. Just when he thinks he has nothing left to surrender, Alfred saunters back into his life, filled with sweet smiles, endearing language, and loving gestures. Only to seize a little more.

 _I want to be happy. I want you to be happy, too_ , Ivan wants to say. But-

"Okay," is all he is able to put forth. Being unable to see Alfred's face is a godsend.

Suddenly, a drop of water splatters against his skin and he remembers what he is supposed to be doing. He puts the glass under the stream of water, lets it fill slowly.

 _Okay_ has never been enough.

Verbally expressing his emotions is not his forte. After three years together, Ivan wonders why Alfred still does not understand that. Although, all the same, he is not sure that statement is meant to be commented on. What can he say that is not already made clear by his actions? While he believes that actions speak louder than words, Alfred believes that a healthy balance is key.

Some say that opposites attract, but no one has ever said that they actually work. After all, attraction can only go so far. There is much that follows coming together.

His hand trembles, sloshing water slightly over the rim as he travels from the kitchen into the living room. he holds out the glass to Alfred. "Drink this."

Without complaint or defiance, Alfred does as told, bringing the glass to his lips. The majority of the liquid ends up soaked into the fabric of his sweater, trailing its way down his chin and neck. Once he is properly hydrated, he is back to talking, which isn't in Ivan's plan.

"Every time I come back to you, it's the same shit. Even so, when we're not together I just feel so fucking lost. Like… I don't know. I feel incomplete. It hurts. It hurts so much."

"Then, why do you keep leaving?"

"Because you're not giving me what I want. I don't ask for much. Hell, I don't even ask you to commit to me. All I want is a little communication but every time I try to talk to you about important shit, you sit there and give me that fucking stupid ass look like you suddenly don't know English. Are you—"

"Alfred," Ivan interrupts, raising a hand. "Let's not tonight. Okay?"

"See!" In a snap, Alfred's temper has been sparked, an unwavering flame of utter frustration. "This is exactly what the _fuck_ I'm talking about. You never want to talk. It's always _me_ doing the talking. _Me_ trying to fix _our_ shitty relationship. _Our_ means you and I, not just me, Ivan. Fucking me _and_ you. There's no fucking language barrier here so what the fuck don't you understand?"

( _angry and temperamental_ )

He _is_ trying. He understands. But he does not need to tell Alfred that. Not tonight, at least. Not while the other is intoxicated and currently being fueled by bottled emotions. He does not want to argue. Arguing always leads to hatred and hatred leads to Alfred leaving. It's a never-ending cycle.

"You should sleep."

"I don't _want_ to fucking sleep!" yells Alfred, slamming a clenched fist down onto the coffee table with enough force to startle Ivan. "I want to talk. I want to fucking talk about this. We never talk. We're always skirting around the issue until it breaks us apart and we end up like this. We don't even know what we are anymore. Are we dating or are we taking a break? Are we officially done?"

He and Alfred, Ivan realizes, are that couple that constantly argues. The ones who can never seem to get it right no matter how hard they try. The couple people observe and wonder, _why are they still together? Why do they keep trying?_

Often, Ivan finds himself asking the same questions in the middle of the night.

"Talk to me. Tell me, Ivan. Stop stringing me along. I'm young and I'm stupid and I can't give you up because I'm so fucking in love that I can't think about anyone _but_ you. So just tell me so that I can move on already. Stop letting me come back because it keeps giving me hope."

 _Say something. Say something. Say something._ He is always too absorbed in his thoughts.

With wide, glistening blue eyes, Alfred gazes up at him, expectant of an answer.

But, as usual, Ivan has nothing. There is so much to say, yet, all the same, so little. Admittedly, Ivan is scared of the consequences that may follow his words. He is afraid to tell Alfred just how in love he is because the screwed up system they have built around their relationship is the only indication Ivan has that Alfred will stay, that he will come back.

Often, he is afraid of what Alfred will say. Power lies in Alfred's words and power lies in Ivan's silence. Ultimately, they are bad for one another.

"Fuck it, then. I don't care anymore," Alfred claims, in spite of the tears beginning to fall from his eyes.

Ivan counts to three before Alfred's indifferent facade crumbles and he begins to cry, loud and unrestrained. It's unsettling and ugly, and, most of all, it hurts. It reminds Ivan that Alfred is, in fact, still a child. All he can feel is guilt with each heart-wrenching sob.

( _overly emotional_ )

"Alright. Let's get you into bed."

Slightly wobbly, Alfred accepts his offered hand and stands, nearly tumbling into Ivan's arms. And if Ivan holds onto him for a little too long and a tad too intimately, it is completely by accident because he is drowning. Wading deeper and deeper into his thoughts, barely aware of his own actions. It's all too much at once. That is Alfred: too many emotions, too many questions, too many expectations.

Together they stagger into the bedroom, Alfred continuing to heave for breath through his relentless crying. He cries and cries and _cries_ (so much that Ivan wants to cry). All through Ivan searching through his drawers for clothes, all through Ivan coaxing him into laying back on the bed, all through Ivan slowly removing his clothing.

Ivan can make out words here and there, but he refuses to respond, refraining from indirectly encouraging more bawling. Instead, he focuses on guiding Alfred into his shirt, one arm at a time, fighting against the overall limpness of the other's fatigued body. Ivan does not mention the fading purples etched onto the skin of his thighs when he removes Alfred's pants to make him more comfortable. Nor does he point out the tender bruises along his neck.

"I hate you so much, Ivan. I really do."

"I know, Alfred. I know," he says softly, uncertain of how to console him. He grasps the edge of the blanket and pulls it up under Alfred's chin, folds the perimeter around and under the mattress to tuck him in tightly. Drained from his nightly activities and battling sleep, Alfred watches him work through hazy eyes.

"Ivan," he murmurs.

"Yes?"

"I don't want to lose you."

"I don't want to lose you either, Alfred."

Hesitantly, he reaches out to thread his fingers in the mess of blonde strands atop Alfred's head. Over and over, his fingertips trail across Alfred's scalp, soothing and urging the boy into the comforting embrace of sleep.

Sometimes, it is difficult to say whether Alfred's love or his hatred hurts more.


	3. Composite Number

_**Composite Number -**_ **a number with at least one other factor besides itself and one.**

* * *

A movie plays on the still nearly-muted television screen; flashes and flickers of too bright colors that fill the entire living room with light. Ivan catches glimpses of it, from the corners of his eyes, but he concentrates on the ceiling. The plain, boring ceiling. If he stares hard enough, he can just make out the imperfect circles of broken plaster where Alfred spent too many a night thumping away with the broom.

 _"They're always so_ loud, _Ivan," he complains, stomping his foot and, ironically, creating quite a bit of noise himself for the tenants below them._

 _And they_ are _always loud—the people who live above them, that is. Heavy-footed like they wear shoes filled with cement, a dog that goes scampering across the hardwood floors with nails that go_ clickety-clack _the entire way, clumsy to the point that Ivan begins to fear that one day he'll wake to some foreign object crashing through the ceiling. Or perhaps it'll hit him and he won't wake._

 _Today, everything comes to a head. They are in the middle of their daily bout of slamming and dropping the weightiest items they can find when Alfred has finally had enough._

 _Between an upcoming Chemistry exam and a recent failure on a Calculus II retest, Alfred is running on a fairly short fuse. Especially so when it comes to those he does not know personally. Thus, the first few thumps go ignored. A misstep, a distraction. But the ones that come after, that is when it all goes to hell. Each one is fuel to a flame that grows into a blazing wildfire._

 _"Shut the fuck up! Jesus Christ!" Alfred yells, head flying back to gaze up at the ceiling, tossing a calculator in a fit of rage. The instrument zips past Ivan's head, nearly clipping him on the ear. Luckily, he possesses enough sense to duck the moment Alfred raises his hand._

 _"Alfred," he tries, wearily unbending his knees to return to full height. However, Alfred is having none of it. The longer the noises carry on above, the louder he becomes. A meaningless shrieking that does nothing but shred the drums of their own ears. And really,_ no one _can ever be louder than Alfred when he's putting his all into it. Ivan knows this well. So he presses his hands over the sides of his head and waits for this childish war to be over._

 _"I'm gonna go the fuck up there!" Alfred announces after his tactic of_ be louder _fails to produce results._

 _Then he slams his pencil down onto his pile of open books atop the coffee table, nearly snapping the thin piece of wood in two. He struggles to get up, calves tingling with static after having sat on them for so long. Ivan hastily intervenes, blocking the pathway to the door with outstretched arms. He's certain things will get a little more rowdy than heated conversation if he lets Alfred pass._

 _As the reasonable adult, Ivan feels obligated to defuse the situation. "Please," he pleads, going as far as to clasp his hands together. "Please do not go up there. Leave it be. They'll quiet down soon enough. You should study."_

 _Alfred nods, turns on his heel and stomps into the kitchen. Ivan thinks he is going to get a snack, a drink, something to calm himself down. Instead, he reappears with the broom in a white-knuckled grip and a look that could kill, which he most likely had intended to do had Ivan allowed him to go confront the tenants upstairs._

 _Ivan wants to inquire about the object, it's right there on the tip of his tongue. Frozen, turned to lead when Alfred huskily shoulders by. Blue eyes seem to trace the location of the noises above until he pinpoints the perfect spot._

 _"Engh!" Alfred groans as he springs up as high as he can, reaching out with the handle of the broom to slam it roughly into the ceiling._

 _Clunk._ Clunkclunksshh _—Ivan snags Alfred roughly by the wrist, causing the very tip of the broom's handle to drag._

 _"What the fu—"_

 _"Will you sto—"_

 _They shout at the same time, a heated argument in the making._

 _A thump._ Thumpthumpsshh _, comes from overhead, a clear mockery of Alfred's noise. No, not possible. It must be a coincidence. Could adults be so petty? But it comes again. This time followed by muffled laughter._

 _What was funny?_

 _Ivan glances at Alfred to ask, perplexed by the lack of a smile on his face. If he is not laughing, then who is? The neighbors?_

 _"Those pricks are being loud on purpose," Alfred whines. "I told you before but you just let them walk all over you."_

 _"Give me the damn broom. You're too short to do any real damage," replies Ivan, rolling his shoulders back in preparation for a long night._

 _"Aw hell yeah!"_

 _Alfred is certainly grinning now, mischievous and evil. Nothing good ever comes from that._

Memories. Nothing but memories now. All the same, Ivan is content to revisit them, to momentarily wallow in longing for the past. Nowadays, he lives there, in his mind, where Alfred smiles brightly for only him and loves completely—only him.

Because even when Alfred is less than fifteen feet away, in his home, laying restless beneath the duvet of his bed, Ivan knows that he is not _his_ anymore. No matter the phone calls, the drunken ramblings of love, the fond reminiscing, Alfred is not _his_. Not his to hold or touch or love any longer. The memories, they are the last manner in which he is able to indulge in those things. Soon, they will be gone as well.

Ivan sighs into the night, filled with a fatigue that exceeds physical boundaries. Is this the exhaustion Alfred mentioned? _I'm tired… of us,_ he said. This blockage, large and uncomfortable in his chest, slowing the steady pump of blood through his veins and the methodical beat of his heart. Is this being tired of loving Alfred? Is it so terrible when considering the things that precede it?

The living room darkens noticeably, luring Ivan's gaze away from the ceiling. The action-packed scenes of before are no longer playing on the television. Gone are the speeding cars that drift expertly around sharp corners. Gone are the needlessly extravagant explosions that spark at every turn. On the screen a man and a woman rush to remove their clothing, not once parting from a kiss that looks bruising. A meaningless sex scene.

He vividly recalls a time when he and Alfred were much the same—unable to keep their hands off each other, hopelessly in love. Forever ago, it feels like.

How did they move from there to here: where Ivan rarely finds sleep, often too immersed in _ifs_ and _buts,_ and Alfred drinks himself silly so he can bare his soul without barriers and drown in the childish hope of being rescued. Where Ivan listlessly wades through life, floundering to take care of himself, careening on the edge of reality and fantasy.

The actors are tumbling onto the bed half-naked when the channel changes, rearranging the screen into a list of previously drawn lottery numbers. Ivan holds the remote in his hand having shot up to swiftly put an end to the movie. It clatters onto the coffee table once the deed is done.

A rustling sounds in the room behind him, the drag of blankets across sheets. A wobbly moan, a whimper. Alfred has been in a sickly fit all night, grumbling his way through the alcohol whilst asleep. Ivan is forced to listen to it all from his lonely spot on the couch, bent awkwardly to get the most out of the modular.

 _From there to here_ , he thinks. _From here to there._

* * *

Ivan is startled awake by a metallic shriek and the stabbing rays of obnoxious sunlight. He groans in annoyance, shielding his eyes with a raised hand. As his vision reconstructs itself, smoothing away floating beads of brightness, a figure moseys forward until it is inches away, bent over him and smiling.

"Rise and shine," coos a blurry Alfred, highlighted by a ring of light beaming through the now-open curtains draped around the window and a haze of dust particles that sprinkle down like snow. He is an angel. This politeness, this sweetness so contrary to the disposition of last night is a dream.

He stands there, freshly showered with hair that sticks to his flushed face in scattered spots. A emerald green sweatshirt (Ivan's) hangs off his torso, his legs crammed into the too-tight jeans from before. His lips move, he is saying something as he turns to pick up the remote, as he turns off the television and interrupts the comfortable routine Ivan has set into place.

The TV is always to remain on, never at a volume higher than five to offset the overwhelming silence that settles in whenever Alfred is not around to chase it away. The curtains are always to remain closed. He does not remember why or when that happened but that is the way things are to be.

"God! It's so depressing in here!" Alfred says teasingly, mocking Ivan's inability to climb out of this pathetic state of despair. "When's the last time you…"

His voice grows quieter as he saunters into the kitchen, out of range for proper conversation without shouting. Ivan listens to the close and shut of cabinets, the pull and shut of drawers. The rummaging through the fridge full of nothing but half-empty condiment bottles. There's a pain building in his temples, one he tries to rub away with forceful fingers. A headache, the hangover Alfred skipped.

Pots and pans rattle. The sink turns on, off. Ivan does not know what Alfred is searching for but he is annoyed. How can he be so cheerful, light and airy, prancing about Ivan's home like it is still his own? Wearing Ivan's clothes. Commenting on Ivan's way of living and scolding him like he's an incompetent child. Grandstanding, showing off how easily he has moved on.

Something is boiling beneath the surface of it all. He moves his fingers from his temples to his eyes and tries to massage out those godforsaken images of Alfred giggling with his phone in his hand as Ivan drove him home, stuck in the role of the lovesick fool. Texting who, texting _who!_ He can hazard a few guesses. They've been doing this long enough for Ivan to know Alfred's designated string of rebounds. Close friends, _fuck_ buddies.

"I made you tea," says Alfred, bustling into the room with a mug.

He puts it down on the coffee table, forgetting to grab a coaster, but that is the least of Ivan's worries now.

Alfred leans in close until the ribbons of steam curling from the hot tea wisp into his face. He continues to smile, pinching his digits close together. "With a _teensy_ bit of sugar. Just how you like it."

Ivan's lips are sewed shut, his jaw clenched. With the sun glaring in his eyes and the television's quiet buzz no longer available, he circles back to the car. If it's not the bittersweet sadness, it's the anger; the cell phone deliberately angled away from him, the text messages flashing in the reflection of the car window, Alfred's flirtatious laughter.

Alfred, who sits beside him like nothing has changed. "You know, you didn't have any coffee. You don't have much of anything in here. Are you okay?"

Ivan scoffs. "Yes. I am fine. Although, it is none of your business."

"What do you mean it's none of my business? What'd I do to you?"

What _hadn't_ he done?

The tea is scalding when Ivan drinks it down, lifting the cup to busy his hands, to have something else to look at other than the adorable pout on Alfred's lips and the hurt visible in those swimming baby blues. He leans away from the warmth that seems to radiate from his body, tucks himself deeper into the corner of the couch when he says, "You lost the privilege to worry about my wellbeing when you left me here. I find it the slightest bit ironic that you choose now to pretend to care—when I need it the least."

Alfred clicks his tongue in annoyance but says nothing else. They sit in silence beside one another. Much like the night before everything crumbled to pieces. Ivan hates to think of that night. The two of them lost, having exhausted all their options to make this thing work. He grabs the remote, turns on the television for the sound and tucks the device in between the couch cushions for safekeeping.

"Is it that hard," Alfred begins quietly, appearing absorbed in the image of a meteorologist explaining the weather forecast. Blobs of green and red travel across an inflated map. "Is it really so hard for you to admit that you missed me?"

Did he miss Alfred or did he miss what they had? He's lying to himself. Lying to them both. Conjuring excuses.

"I didn't. You're nothing but a burden. Perhaps I miss you when you are gone. But when you are here… Not so much."

Is it a lie if that is how he feels in that moment? He doesn't care.

"Okay," comes Alfred's clipped answer, he picks at the fraying ends of a rip on his jeans. "Okay. I have to go now. Bye, Ivan. Take care of yourself."

They stand at the same time, avoiding glancing at one another. Alfred rushes to the door. Ivan is in the kitchen when he hears it click shut. He pours the remaining tea from his mug down the drain and places it in the sink. An open bag of sugar rests on the counter, surrounded by crystal grains. Some of the cabinets are not fully closed, the tea tin is on the wrong shelf. _Later_. He'll fix it all later. Everything.

When he turns to leave something on the top of the refrigerator catches his eye. He shuffles closer, peers at the blank screen of Alfred's phone. _The_ phone. Ivan has it now, in the palm of his hand. A button on the side clicks and the screen lights up with a number pad and a urging to _insert PIN_. Behind it is the digital replica of the photo on the end table by the door, the one in the frame currently face-down. The one of him and Alfred during the honeymoon stages of their relationship, grinning and happy, so in love. The one he needs to throw out.

Ivan grimaces. More lies. He hurriedly types in four-eight-two-six, praying that Alfred has yet to change the code. He needs to know, he needs to know.

It works. In a rush, he jams his thumb onto the little icon for messaging. His search does not have to go any further than that. It's all right there. Not hidden to spare his feelings. At the very top of the list of the most recent threads of texts. The contact: _Gilbie_ , followed by a tiny little heart that grips Ivan's own. The messages:

 _have fun with ur lil bf_

 _hes not my bf. lol. you jealous?_

 _mayb i thought we had smth good going_

 _do we?_

 _u were certainly singin ur praises last time_

 _was i? cant remember_

 _aw dont b like that babe_

 _eh idk_

 _come on cutie i thought i was ur bf_

 _still thinking about that_

 _need a lil reminder of how much u loved me last time?_

 _mmmm maybe ;)_


	4. Derivative

_**Derivative -**_ **a measure of how a function or curve changes as its input changes.**

* * *

Through hundreds and hundreds of text messages, Ivan scrolls; an endless rolling sea of _i miss yous,_ suggestive emoticons, and exchanges of sexually explicit photographs and passages. Each one twists the knife in his heart a little farther. But it is the _i love yous_ , the innocent selfies, that send him careening helplessly toward the couch. He tosses the phone onto the coffee table as if his fingers have been scalded, though really, it is his heart that bears the scorch marks of betrayal.

 _i love you,_ the words stare back at him mockingly until the screen fades to black. Then it is the small reflection of his torn face he is inspecting, streaked with swiped smudges. When, he wonders, did he become this pathetic husk of the man he once was? Broken and dependent, restless and sickened by a love that seemingly has nothing to do devotion. When? Or rather, _why?_

Finally, he understands Alfred's qualms about communication because he cannot answer. Why, why, why? There is no answer and he _needs_ it—the why. Ivan needs it in the midst of the chaos that is his world crumbling beneath his feet without a single thing to show that the agony of it all will be worth it.

With his throat tight and his heart weakening, he sits motionless, breathless as his mirrored image begins to blur. Tears, that burning sensation in his eyes. Anger, that weighty throb beneath his skin that urges him to _do_ without consideration of the consequences. Without consideration for _him_ , who never had the decency to gift Ivan the same respect.

Outside, he hears the consistent thumping of jogging footsteps, the jingle of keys hitting one another. The locks to his apartment begin to slide out of place, the knob twists and the door swings open to reveal a heaving Alfred. His face is flushed, his chest a jolting rise and fall as he sucks in ragged breaths.

"Ivan, I—" he starts, only to cleave his sentence in half when his eyes, blown wide with fear, land on his phone.

Without a word, Alfred surges forward, rushing to get to the device, but Ivan is there first, given the advantage in distance. He snatches it up, raises it high above his head and out of Alfred's immediate reach.

"What the hell, Ivan!" Alfred exclaims, rocking up onto the balls of his feet to extend his height. His hand snags the sleeve of Ivan's shirt but with the table between them his grip swiftly loosens.

"Who is Gilbie?" Ivan asks, tone lilting on the name in a taunting manner. He asks, though he knows the answer. He knows, he's seen him, he's spoken to him, even shook his hand.

Alfred immediately freezes up, struck by realization. His almost hopeful fear bleeds away, vanishes to be replaced with contempt. Disdain is an ugly thing on him; an ugly thing that pinches his eyebrows close together and snuffs out the glittering light in his eyes. Those shamelessly expressive blues that Ivan fell so hard for grow cold and lifeless; absent of the love Alfred once held for him. Was it ever truly there?

"You went through my phone," he says accusingly. The same tactic of flipping the script, preying on Ivan's conscience, over and over, again and again and _again._

That raging anger within him does not allow Ivan to cede this time. "Are you having sex with him?"

A stupid question, he knows. Stupid because he _knows_ the answer, holds the evidence in his hand. The messages, the pictures, the goddamn _videos._ Yet he needs to hear it. A confession worthy of bringing Alfred back to him, capable of reminding them of the unwavering love beneath the hurt, the anger, the conflict. And he's weak, so weak. If Alfred denies it, he will believe it. He wants to believe it, he can make himself believe if it will allow him to salvage what's left of their happiness.

"That's none of your business," Alfred answers, stalking around the table to make another lunge for the phone.

Ivan takes a step back, holding out an arm to keep Alfred at a distance as he taps the pin into the cellphone. He scrolls through the texts until he finds the thumbnail of a video from "Gilbie." He presses play and turns the device so Alfred can view the screen.

It is almost comical how quickly the tables turn to the music of Alfred's gasping breaths and whimpering moans pouring from the speakers. Alfred, here now, visibly deflates, averts his gaze as if he cannot bear to see the exhibition of his own infidelity. The passionate cries and vulnerable pleas that Ivan has not heard in weeks. It hurts to listen to, each frame of the video already imprinted in his brain, the images flickering and repeating behind his closed eyes, rolling on a mental strip of film he'll never be able to forget.

"Stop."

"I'll ask again," Ivan remarks, increasing the volume to maximum of the video. " _Are_ _you_ having _sex_ with him, Alfred?"

"Turn it off!" insists Alfred. He covers his ears, blocking out the recorded audio of his indiscretion. "Turn it the fuck off if you already know."

"This—" Ivan pauses, brings up the album of graphic photos exchanged between the two. " _This_ is what you were doing while I was sitting here _loving_ you, Alfred?" His voice cracks, overcome by abruptly uncorked emotions, and dwindles into something pitiful and tiny. He relents, drops his hand down to his side, hiding the pictures, the videos, the messages.

Alfred, seemingly uncaring, thrusts out a hand and demands, "Give me my fucking phone right now, Ivan. I swear to God. This isn't funny."

Like Ivan is a child. As if nothing but receiving his phone matters in this situation. In a fit of uncontrolled rage, Ivan hurls the device past Alfred's head. It smashes against the wall with a harsh _crack_ , chipping away the paint and leaving a sizeable dent. There is a sick satisfaction Ivan draws from hearing Alfred gasp in shock, knowing that he has destroyed something that he owns, something he loves and cherishes.

"Jealous," Alfred states, rushing over to inspect the damages. From where he stands, Ivan can see that the display is veined, splintered. "You've always been so fucking jealous and insecure. It's pathetic."

Another knife to the wounded cavity where his heart lies. He cannot conjure a counterargument to something that is undoubtedly the truth. He is jealous, rightfully so. He is insecure, never able to truly trust the sweet nothings Alfred whispers into his ear when things aren't sullied by hostility. Even before they sank into this tragic cycle of suffering.

The tables are turning again, leaving Ivan cornered, mute and burdened by his own wrongings. He is the one who burst under the weight of it all, fell weak to his fury and allowed it to command him.

Alfred clicks his tongue. "And you wonder why I don't want to marry you."

The last stab to Ivan's heart forces him back to where this all started. He sinks down into the cushions of the couch, he exhales a shuddering breath and squeezes his eyelids shut against the onslaught of tears to no avail. He drives his palms against his eyes in a futile attempt to halt them but he can no longer hold it in, this irrepressible hurt and he is weeping. After it all, he is still the one to break. Always the one torn with grief.

"I'll see you later, Ivan."

The door closes and Alfred leaves him to cry for the man he once was.

* * *

 **author's note: i apologize for slacking in this department. i want to let you guys know that i really love your reviews and appreciate them so much. especially for those who review consistently. thank you so much. i'm glad that people enjoy this story and feel things for these characters.**


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